


The Water Is Wide

by eternaleponine



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Clexa Week 2020, F/F, Pirate Captain Lexa, Ship's Surgeon Clarke, Warning: Mentions of Slavery, Warning: Period Typical Sexism, Warning: violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23038483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: After running away from her home in the colonies to escape being married off by her stepfather to 'whatever man would have her', Clarke begs, borrows, and steals her way onto a ship that will take her to the island of Polis, where it is rumored that the pirate captain Alexandria 'The Commander' Woods makes her home when she's not terrorizing the seas with her (almost) all-female crew on her ship, The Flame.When they meet, though, things don't according to plan, and the captain denies Clarke a place on her ship.  But then an explosion in the port injures one of Lexa's crew, and Clarke is given the opportunity to prove herself.  Can she save the girl, and along with her, any hope she has for a future of her own choosing?
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 112
Kudos: 436
Collections: Clexaweek2020





	1. Chapter 1

"I've got something for you," Luna said, flashing Lexa a smile as she sauntered up to the bar. 

"If it's not a kiss from those ruby lips, I don't want it," Lexa countered. She dropped her sea bag at her feet and reached to catch her oldest and best friend's face between her hands, but Luna dodged away before she could get a grip. 

"Save it for the other girls," Luna said, laughing. "You know that's never worked on me."

"You can't blame a girl for trying," Lexa said. She took the mug Luna slid to her and brought it to her lips, taking a deep swallow and covering her cough when she discovered it was stronger stuff than she was used to. Stores had gotten low and they'd been watering their libations for several weeks to make them last 'til they returned to port. "One of these days you might change your mind."

Lexa knew she wouldn't, about the kiss or anything else. They were too alike in some ways, and too much like sisters for things to ever work between them as anything other than exactly what they were: two sides of the same salty coin. Lexa ruled the sea, while Luna held things together on land, making sure that Lexa always had a place to call home when she needed it.

"One of these days," Luna said, humoring her. "Should I send her away then?" 

Lexa set down her mug, her smile and sense of ease evaporating. "Her?"

"The girl."

"What girl?" Lexa asked. 

"The one waiting for you," Luna said, her lips quirking, clearly enjoying this. "I told you."

"You said some _thing_ ," Lexa said, "not some _one_." 

"Is there a difference these days?" Luna asked, her own good humor slipping away. 

"I'm doing what I can," Lexa said, reaching across the planks polished smooth by years of hands tracing their surface to touch Luna's hand, just the tips of their fingers interlacing. "We're trying, and that's more than most people can say."

"I know," Luna said. "It just doesn't feel like enough. It never feels like enough." She pulled her hand away, grabbing a rag and a glass and polishing it even though it was already gleaming. "She's in the back. Seemed a bit... delicate for this crowd." 

Lexa sighed and gulped down the rest of her drink. Maybe not her best move, going into a meeting the nature of which she didn't know with anything less than a clear head, but if Luna didn't think this girl could handle a couple of dozen sailors on shore leave, it wasn't likely to be a very long conversation. 

Girls – and a few men – came from all over to see her, to talk to her, to try to seek her favor. They all had their reasons, and some of them were good ones. Some were even good enough to get them a place on her ship – on a trial basis – to see if they had what it took. Of those she let set foot on her deck, maybe half were still around when they made port again, either by their choice or by hers. She ran a tight ship, and a tight crew, and it wasn't always just about whether or not you could do the work. She'd kept girls who couldn't tie a single knot (save the sort used in embroidery) when they came aboard, and sent packing ones who had the sea in their veins from birth because they rubbed her the wrong way. 

The last thing she needed was a shrinking violet who got the vapors at a little coarse language or ribald humor. 

She pushed open the door to the back room where they – she and Luna, and others sometimes with Luna's permission – conducted business they didn't want out in the open for any and all to see. The scrape of a chair across the floor drew her attention, and her eyes went wide when she saw how close the other occupant of the room was standing. 

"It's about time," she said. "Shall we begin?"

* * *

Clarke didn't like being made to wait. The hours between the first whispers that the famous pirate ship The Flame was back in port, and with it its infamous captain Alexandria 'The Commander' Woods, seemed to stretch as long as the days – weeks, lifetime – that had led up to this moment. And Clarke wasn't waiting a second longer.

"It's about time," she said, close – too close – to the woman whose exploits were reported in the papers back home with the same kind of breathless fascination one might expect from a serial adventure story, inspiring awe in some and derision bordering on hatred in others. "Shall we begin?"

Clarke could see she – the unflappable Commander – was startled, but only for a second before she made the slight rocking back on her heels she'd done when she'd realized Clarke had reduced the distance between them to nearly nothing seem intentional. She put her hands on her hips, rolling her shoulders back, and looked down her nose, one eyebrow arching. "What, exactly, do you mean to start?" she asked. "If you're looking for a fight, I assure you, I'll win."

Clarke bit her tongue to keep the apology that rushed to its tip from slipping past her lips. She was done with apologizing, done with being made to feel like she had no right to take up space, or to have thoughts or opinions of her own. She wasn't here to pick a fight, but she wasn't going to back down from a challenge, either. 

"I'm not," she said. "That's your job."

Captain Woods' eyes narrowed, and her chin tilted ever-so-slightly, but she said nothing. Waiting, Clarke assumed, for her to cower beneath her gaze as it was said grown men, seasoned captains twice her age and more, did when they sighted The Flame appearing on the horizon too close for them to run. 

But she wasn't going to cower. She wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

"My job," she continued, "is to put your crew back together afterward." 

"How do you figure that?" Captain Woods asked, trying to look disinterested, but her keen eyes – green as the Caribbean waters Clarke had sailed through to get here – gave her away. Clarke had baited the hook; now she just needed to get the captain to bite.

"I know you don't like men on your ship," Clarke said. "The ones that earn your trust are few and far between. Which leaves you in a bit of a quandry when it comes to finding a ship's surgeon. Women aren't clever enough to be doctors, after all. It goes against their nature." 

The captain snorted, and Clarke fought back a smile, because the hook was set. She started reeling. "I'm here to offer you a solution."

"And what's that?" Captain Woods asked. 

"Me," Clarke said. "As you can see, I am not a man."

She might have been mistaken, and it might have been the tropical heat, but Clarke thought she saw the faintest blush of color tinging the captain's cheeks as her eyes flicked down and back up again. Clarke had had only one outfit left that wasn't salt-stained or otherwise ruined from the journey, and it was rather fancier than the occasion called for, but it left no doubt about the fact that she belonged to the fairer sex. 

"As you may have guessed, I am also not fond of being told what I can and cannot do, and what I should and should not learn. Which is why I've been studying my father's medical books every night since I was old enough to reach them off the shelf." Clarke drew herself up. " _I_ will be your ship's surgeon."

* * *

_Delicate?_ Lexa thought. _Luna thinks this one is **delicate**?_ Putting aside the fact that she was clad in a dress more suited to a plantation ball than the back room of a bar frequented by pirates, it was just about the last word Lexa would use to describe the girl – woman – in front of her. And yet...

She had spirit, Lexa had to give her that, and no lack of confidence. And Lexa wasn't dismissing the importance of either one of those things for a life at sea, especially one lived outside of the law. But books and cleverness only got a person so far. Lexa's crew needed more than thoughts and prayers after a fight; they needed a doctor. A real one. 

"I don't think so," Lexa said. "I have no doubt you've got the brain for it. You might even have the nerve. But you don't have what we need most: experience."

"How do you know?" the woman – whose name she had neglected to give, and whether it was unintentional oversight or purposeful evasion Lexa didn't know, and hadn't decided yet if it mattered – asked, chin and chest jutted out in a way that attracted Lexa's attention more than she should have let it, so she had to remind herself of where her eyes were.

"You said you studied your father's books," Lexa said. "I've read the complete works of Shakespeare, but it doesn't make me a poet or playwright." 

The woman pursed her lips. "That doesn't mean I don't have experience," she said, but her boldness was starting to waver, her brash façade to fray at the edges. 

"Did he teach you, then?" Lexa asked. "Take you as an apprentice, and to hell with what people thought?"

"What if he did?" Clarke asked. "Would it get me on your ship?"

_Yes,_ Lexa thought. _If you knew what to do to save a girl with a splinter in her leg straight through to the bone, or a festering wound from a poison-edged knife, you would be on my ship in a heartbeat. But you don't._ "No," she said. 

"No?" Her forehead furrowed, her brows drawing together nearly into a single line. "What more do you want, then? What more do you need?"

"I need someone who respects authority," Lexa said. "I need someone who will listen and do as she's told. I need someone who knows how to follow orders. You've already made it clear you're not that kind of girl. So whatever else you may or may not be able to offer, there is no place for you on my ship, or likely any other." She turned to leave, closing the distance to the door in a few quick strides. She reached to open it, only to have her hand snatched away before she could twist the knob.

"Respect is earned," she said, "not given."

Lexa looked down at their now-joined hands, then back up at the woman's face. "If I have not earned your respect, why are you here?" she asked. "There are other captains. Other ships. Try there." She tried to extricate her hand from the woman's white-knuckled grip. 

"I can't!" she said. "You know I can't! No one else will have me." Her face twisted, a flash of horror mixed with rage, and then smoothed again. "Not as a surgeon," she added more softly. 

Only then did Lexa pick up on the perhaps unintentional double meaning, and her stomach churned, because she was right. Of course she was right. If any other ship in this harbor – or any harbor – had use for her, it wasn't going to involve a scalpel or poultices and powders. 

And wasn't that why she did what she did? She felt something kindle inside her. Something she shouldn't allow to ignite. "What's your name?" she asked. 

"Clarke," she said. "Clarke Griffin." 

"Captain Alexandria Woods," Lexa said, bowing over Clarke's hand in overblown mimicry of a courtly gesture. "My friends call me Lexa." 

"And what should I call you?" Clarke asked. 

Lexa smirked. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."

* * *

Clarke watched her go, striding out with the tails of her coat flapping behind her, and she told herself the heat building in her gut was anger - _only_ anger – but there was something about her, about those eyes, that face, those _lips_ \--

It didn't bear thinking about. _She_ didn't bear thinking about. Because she'd said no.

She'd been Clarke's last, best hope, and she'd said no. 

Hadn't she?

But if she'd said no, and meant it, why had she then told Clarke they would have to wait and see what Clarke got to call her? It implied a continuing acquaintance, and the possibility that Clarke might one day be counted among those who the captain called friend, and who called the captain Lexa.

"Wait and see," Clarke fumed. "Wait and see. What does that even _mean_?" But she wasn't going to find answers in the confines of this room. She had half a mind to follow Lexa – Captain Woods, The Commander, whatever she was meant to be called – and demand she clarify her position, make clear her intentions. But when she got to the door, the woman was nowhere to be seen.

Where could she have disappeared to so quickly? Clarke had been led to believe this place – The Boatkeeper's Daughter – was where one went if one wished to conduct business with Captain Woods, and the woman behind the bar (perhaps the boatkeeper's daughter herself) had all but confirmed it. Had she gone back to her ship? Should Clarke try to follow her there? Maybe she could stow away, hide herself until they left port again and in a moment of crisis, prove she was just as capable as any man, and then Lexa would have no choice but to—

_There you go again,_ she thought. _Letting your imagination run away with you._ The wild notions she'd had about a woman's place in the world, and her place in particular, had amused her father, worried her mother (although Clarke thought her mother agreed with her more often than she was willing to admit), and infuriated her stepfather, leaving him with no other choice but to see her 'settled down with any man who would have her'.

But Clarke wasn't going to settle down. She wasn't going to settle at all. 

So she'd begged, borrowed, and stole her way down to this 'nest of whores and vipers' (as the papers put it) to seek her fortune with the only woman in the world she thought might give her a fair chance. 

And she'd said no. 

Clarke's eyes burned, but she refused to shed a tear. Not here, not now, not ever where anyone could see. She pushed back her shoulders... then rolled them forward again as her décolletage threatened to overflow. At least her corset kept her back straight, and she put her chin up as she marched toward the door.

"I can send someone for your things," the woman at the bar called. "There's no need to fetch them yourself."

Clarke stopped, turned, resisting the urge to point to herself to clarify whether she was the one being addressed. No one else seemed to be paying attention (although that didn't mean they weren't) and she was looking straight at Clarke. "I beg your pardon?"

"I can send someone for your things," the woman repeated. "I don't employ anyone I don't trust implicitly." 

Clarke blinked. The statement implied that she ran this place... but was that really so shocking? The rules were different down here... sometimes. Bent where they weren't broken. If a woman could captain a ship, why couldn't one own a bar? Or tavern or whatever one wanted to call it. Clarke suspected it might be a few other things besides, but she wasn't going to ask questions. 

"Where are you staying?" the barkeep asked. 

"The Bunker," Clarke said, before she could think better of it. 

The woman hissed and might have spat if she wouldn't have had to clean it up off the floor again. "Not anymore, you're not," she said. "They'll bleed you dry and tell you you still owe them. You'll stay here. I've got a room free upstairs."

"I'm not—" Clarke frowned, taking a step closer and lowering her voice. "I won't 'earn my keep', if that's what you're thinking."

The woman laughed. Loud enough and long enough that it drew attention from some of the others in the place, and Clarke fought the warring urge to square her shoulders and shrink into herself. "I wasn't," she said, when she'd caught her breath again. "Your body is yours to do what you want with, of course, and it's no business of mine unless you make it my business. Don't bring trouble into my house and I won't give you any grief, whatever you choose to do. But I was under the impression you would be shipping out with the captain next time she leaves."

Clarke stiffened. "Where did you get that idea?" she asked. 

"It's what you came for, isn't it? It's why you wanted to speak to her?"

"Yes, but—" Clarke set her jaw and blinked against the burning in her eyes. "She wasn't interested."

The woman's lips twisted into an amused half-smile. "Wasn't she?" She cocked her head. "What exactly did she say?"

"No," Clarke said. "She said no. She said she needs someone with experience. Someone who will follow orders and respect authority. I'm not that person." 

"Neither is she," the woman said. "Never has been, never will be." She gestured for Clarke to sit. "Are you hungry?"

"Starved," Clarke said, and the woman smiled like she thought it was funny that Clarke hadn't demurred, pretending to have the appetite of a hummingbird (although really they were voracious eaters – they had to be to keep up with the metabolism that went along with that level of activity) because to do otherwise wasn't ladylike. 

"I'll be right back." The woman disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a steaming plate of chicken and bread and potatoes and greens. She set a napkin and fork beside them, and watched with open amusement as Clarke tucked the napkin into her cleavage to keep from spilling down the front of her only clean dress and dug in. 

"You don't seem like the sort who takes no for an answer," the woman said. "Why start now?"

"I didn't," Clarke said, washing a mouthful of food down with a gulp of not particularly good wine. "She tried to leave, but I stopped her and—"

"You stopped her?"

"Yes," Clarke said. "I grabbed her hand and—"

"And lived to tell of it?" The woman let out a low whistle. 

"She wasn't going to kill me just for touching her," Clarke said. 

"She has," the woman said. "I've seen her do it, and helped her get rid of the body." She tipped her head. "Granted, he was trying to grab a lot more than just her hand, but..." She let it trail off with a shrug. 

"Who _are_ you?" Clarke finally asked. 

"Luna," she said. If the name was supposed to mean anything to Clarke, it didn't, but one didn't generally gain notoriety serving beer and renting rooms, even if it was to pirates. She didn't seem inclined to elaborate, either, only asked, "And you are?"

"Clarke." 

"Well, Clarke, it sounds like you gave her more than enough rope to hang you with, and you're still breathing, so take that as a good sign. And you can have the room for half of whatever you're paying at The Bunker."

Clarke blinked. Offering her a bit of a discount to try to win her business was one thing, but half? That felt personal. "Why?" she asked. "Why do you want me here so badly?"

Luna smiled. "Because it's not often I get to see Lexa squirm," she said, "and I'm very much looking forward to seeing how this plays out."

* * *

"You did _what_?" Lexa demanded. "Luna, I—"

"Don't get a say in my business, any more than I get a say in yours," Luna said. "You run your ship as you see fit, and I'll do the same with mine."

"This isn't a ship," Lexa said dryly.

"And aren't you glad?" Luna asked. "On a ship there won't be any escape."

Lexa pressed her lips together, the subtlety of the wording not lost on her. 'Won't be' rather than 'wouldn't be', as if Clarke's presence on her decks was a foregone conclusion, despite Lexa have told her she wouldn't be welcome.

Hadn't she?

But Clarke hadn't accepted it, not really, had argued – but not pled – her case, and Lexa had left without reversing her initial dismissal, but she'd left the door open, just a crack, hadn't she? 

And now she would have to be careful not to leave her actual door open, lest the brazen would-be doctor take it as an invitation. It would be all too easy with her staying in the room right next to Lexa's, thanks to Luna's meddling. 

"You need someone," Luna said. "Last time you sailed without a surgeon—"

"You don't need to remind me," Lexa said, cutting her off. "I was there. You weren't." She'd lost three of her women that trip, one to infection and two to a mysterious illness they'd never found the source of, and that Lexa had feared would overtake the entire ship, but thankfully hadn't spread. She'd spoken the ritual words to commit them to the deep, the words that had once been Luna's to speak before she'd had her fill of blood and violence, stoic and composed even when her crew couldn't see, because she didn't want to give any of them a reason to call her weak. Only Luna had seen the tears she'd shed for them, once they were back on shore. 

"You have other prospects then?" Luna asked. "Other possibilities?"

"Lincoln knows a man," Lexa said. Lincoln was one of the few men on her crew, steady and stalwart and not too proud to take orders from a woman. He'd said he had a friend he could talk to, try to convince him to ship out with them next time they left port. 

"A man?" Luna asked, her eyebrows going up. "Does this man have a name? Have you met him?"

"Nyko," Lexa said. "And—"

"No," Luna said, shaking her head. "You can't have him."

Lexa frowned. "What do you mean, I can't have him?"

"He's the only doctor on this godsforsaken island who treats women like they're people," Luna said. "He's the only one the working girls can go to if they need... help. You can't have him."

Lexa sighed. She wanted to argue, but what was she going to say? 'My girls need him more than yours do'? Not that the working girls were Luna's, exactly, but she looked out for them, made sure they had a safe place to sleep and food to eat if they needed it. And if what Luna said was true – and Luna wasn't prone to falsehood – her girls needed Lincoln's man as much as her crew, maybe more. "Fine," she said. "You win." Luna's eyes lit up, but Lexa held up a hand and shook her head. "I won't take him," she said. "But that doesn't mean I'm taking her, either."

"We'll see," Luna said, amusement curling her lips in a way that made Lexa want to smack to smirk from them, but she never would. She never raised a hand in violence against a friend, or even her crew, unless there was no other option, and she valued her relationship with Luna too much to ever do anything that might jeopardize it. 

"I'm going out," Lexa said, shoving back her seat. "Don't wait up."

"I never do," Luna said, but she caught Lexa's arm before she could make it to the door. "Be smart," she said, "and be safe."

"Always," Lexa answered, "and never."

* * *

Time was a funny thing on this island. They were ruled by the tides, and the tides were ruled by the moon, and they marked the passage of the days by its waxing and waning, but there was little in the way of distinction between work days and rest days. The city that had grown up around the port never slept. Not really. Someone was always coming and someone was always going, and there was always something to be done. But when a crew returned from a long stretch at sea, it was cause for celebration, and as hard as they worked, they reveled harder. 

Lexa caught up with some of her crew at one of the rowdier establishments, which offered everything a sailor on shore leave could want: food, drink, music, conversation (if you could shout loud enough to be heard), games of chance and games of skill, women (and a few men, if that was more to your liking). It drew a rougher crowd than The Boatkeeper's Daughter, which was fine by Luna, who would rather not have to shell out to replace tables and chairs, or scrub blood from the boards, every time a brawl broke out.

"Captain!" Anya called, raising her glass as Lexa strode up. 

"Captain!" a few of the others echoed, although Lexa caught a few sidelong looks that told her her presence wasn't entirely welcome. After weeks or sometimes months at sea, they were all more than a little tired of each other's faces, and how could her crew blow off steam when she was watching over them like a mother hen? Except she wasn't. As long as they didn't get themselves jailed or killed, she didn't much care what they got up to when they weren't on her ship. She wouldn't have them on her crew if they were the sort to do anything she wouldn't. But they still felt the need to maintain some level of decorum around her, and usually she gave them the space to do that.

_Blame Luna,_ she wanted to say. _If she'd just given me a kiss instead of a problematic girl..._

"Can I get you a drink, Captain?" Anya asked. She was Lexa's second-in-command now, but once upon a time she had been the one showing Lexa the ropes – literally. Lexa was grateful Anya had never resented her rise to fame – and notoriety – even when it meant the student surpassed the teacher. But Lexa had brought Anya up with her, and perhaps that had made the difference.

Lexa shook her head. "Next round's on me," she said, and that got a more enthusiastic cheer. She toasted the women around the table when the drinks arrived, and downed her glass, then called for another. Her head was spinning just a little when she stood up, leaving them to it before she overstayed her welcome. She could still put one foot in front of the other without wobbling, but her belly was warm and her limbs were loose as she stepped back out into the night. 

Some time later an explosion shook the night. It sounded like it came from the docks, and Lexa picked up her pace, heading toward it. There were still women on her ship, keeping watch, and they would come find her if there was anything she needed to know about, but it never hurt to be proactive. 

She was just coming to the pier where The Flame had made her berth when she nearly tripped over a small body sprawled face down in the road. She rolled it over and her breath caught in her throat. It was one of her girls, Anya's newest protegee. Her name was Tris, and she couldn't be more than twelve or thirteen. Lexa pressed her fingers to the girl's throat and found her pulse, which seemed steady enough, but her chest hitched and heaved like she was struggling to breathe. 

As if she had some kind of sixth sense (and maybe she did; she'd always seemed to know when Lexa had gotten herself into trouble) Anya came skidding up. She fell to her knees beside Tris' still form. "No," she said. "No, no, she can't—"

"She isn't," Lexa said. "Not yet, anyway."

Anya looked at her, wild-eyed. "What do we do? Take her back to the ship? We don't—"

"No," Lexa interrupted. "Get her up. Come with me."

* * *

Clarke had just started to drift off when a boom loud enough to rattle the walls jerked her awake again. She went to the window, peering out, but didn't see anything. There were no shouts of alarm coming from the streets; maybe it was just something that happened around here. Maybe someone was testing a cannon or something. It was late, closing in on midnight, she thought, but she didn't think that meant the same thing here as it had back home. Here it seemed like the night didn't even get started until ordinary people would be heading to bed. 

She went to her bag and pulled out one of the few books she'd been able to save from her stepfather's purge of any and everything that mattered to her, flipping through its familiar pages, her fingers tracing the pages like one might stroke the skin of one's beloved... 

A knock on her door jerked her back to reality (and the words on the page back into focus, because her mind had drifted...) and she wrapped her arms around herself, opening it just a crack and peering out. "Can I—"

"You want a chance to prove yourself?" Captain Lexa asked. "Get dressed and get yourself downstairs. And bring your books."


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke wanted to ask what had happened, but Lexa had already turned to go back downstairs, and Clarke didn't think she would appreciate it if Clarke yelled after her. She had issued an order, and she expected to be obeyed.

More importantly, she was giving Clarke a chance. 

She grabbed one of her sweat- and salt-stained dresses that would have long since been consigned to the rag pile if she was at home and threw it on over her shift. She didn't bother with a corset – she didn't have time – which made it was a bit of a struggle to get herself sorted and everything where it belonged. 

Clarke felt hands at her back, helping with the fastenings and finishing with a gentle pat. When she looked, she had to turn her gaze downward because the one who had assisted her was barely more than a girl, round-faced and doe-eyed with a shy smile. 

"Thank you," Clarke said. She grabbed her father's books and the paltry collection of medical supplies she'd managed to spare from the fire when her stepfather had gotten into one of his moods where he felt compelled to assert his authority as the so-called man of the house. She didn't bother with shoes, just padded down the stairs at as quick a clip as she could manage without dropping anything or tripping over her hem and falling ass-over-teakettle. 

"What—" she started to ask, but discovered there was no need to finish because it was immediately obvious what the problem was. There, laid out on one of the tables, was a girl – probably near enough the same age as the one who had just helped her upstairs – her face pale and smudged, her chest hitching as she tried and failed to draw breath. 

"What happened?" she asked, edging past the women gathered around the table to get a closer look. She pressed her fingers just below the girl's jaw, and her pulse was strong, but much too fast. "Well?"

"There was an explosion," one of the women said. She was steely-eyed, with cheekbones sharp as razors and a tongue to match, Clarke had no doubt. But behind her glare there was something else: fear. 

Clarke immediately started to check for wounds, signs of cuts or piercing shrapnel, but there was hardly a mark on the girl. She was streaked with soot, but there was no evidence of burns, and the only blood was from a few small scrapes on her arms, likely from the landing after being thrown by the blast. So why was she struggling to breathe?

She hated to do it with so many eyes on her, but Clarke pulled out one of her father's books, flipping through the pages as quickly as she could. The woman who wouldn't budge from the girl's side breathed down her neck, her patience thinning with each passing second that Clarke didn't have an answer. 

"What is this?" she finally demanded, but not of Clarke. She had turned her burning gaze on Lexa. "She needs a doctor, not a school mistress!" 

"Clarke _is_ a doctor," Lexa said calmly. Too calmly, perhaps. 

"Then why isn't she _doing_ something?"

"She will, Anya," Lexa said. "I'll venture this isn't the sort of thing one sees every day. She'll find what she's looking for and save Tris." 

"And if she doesn't, I'll kill her," Anya growled. "Blood for blood." 

"No one's bleeding," Lexa said, her voice still cool and level, and Clarke's stomach knotted, hoping she could prove herself worthy of Lexa's faith in her abilities. Even if it was feigned. In this moment, it felt like they were both playing roles they hadn't been given the script for until the last moment, and then thrown onto the stage to put on the performance of a lifetime. 

She turned another page, and another, and then a few more as something nagged at the back of her mind, a memory that was fighting to resurface. She closed her eyes and took a breath, for once not struggling to keep the past in its place, locked in the part of her mind where she stored all the painful things she was dared not look at for fear they would swamp her and drag her down. It often meant suppressing good memories too, but it was a price she'd learned to pay. 

_An explosion. A man, sucking wind like a horse that had been ridden too fast for too long. Her father pressing his ear to the man's chest, going to one of his books and going straight to a page dominated by a diagram, and then there was a knife, and blood, and a reed piercing his side, and the man dragging in a great gasp of air as if a weight had been removed from his chest._

Clarke couldn't remember if he'd lived. Her mother had come and shooed her out of the room, but she'd already seen too much.

Now she hoped she'd seen just enough. She opened the book again and rifled the pages, pausing each time she got sight of a large illustration. Waiting for the memory to coincide with the image in front of her. Praying that the book her father had referenced was the one she held. 

She was about to give up when the girl's wheezing became harsher and more labored, and Anya was at her side again, stroking back her hair from her clammy skin. "Shh," she murmured. "Shh, it's all right now." 

It wasn't, and Clarke wasn't sure it would be, but she began searching with renewed energy, and finally the book seemed to fall open of its own accord, showing her exactly what she needed. 

"Tris, is it?" Clarke asked, laying the book on the table beside her, open to the page she would need. The glaring woman – Anya – gave a sharp nod. "All right then, Tris," Clarke said. "Let's see what we can do to get you breathing easier." She leaned over and pressed her ear to the girl's chest, first on one side and then on the other, and as she suspected, she could hear air moving in one lung and not the other. She looked up at no one in particular. "I'm going to need a sharp knife, alcohol, and a sort of tube – a reed or something – about the size of my little finger." She held it up to demonstrate. "Quickly."

Lexa pulled a knife from her belt and flipped it in the air, nearly causing Clarke a heart attack as she thought she might catch it by the blade and in doing so, provide Clarke another opportunity to demonstrate her skills. But she caught the hilt with the blade landing safely against the sleeve of her coat, and offered it to Clarke. 

Clarke nodded, taking it gingerly. Luna approached with a flask of something – it didn't matter what – and a stack of clean cloths. Clarke gave her an appreciative nod; she had forgotten to ask for something to use for cleaning and bandaging, but clearly this wasn't the first injury the barkeep had seen tended to. Luna went behind the bar and came back with a small tube of the sort one would use when tapping a keg or cask. "Will this do?"

"Ideally it should be longer, but needs must," Clarke said.

"We'll keep looking," Luna said. 

Clarke nodded her thanks and set about cleaning the blade with the alcohol, her eyes on her book as she read over the procedure it outlined. She tried to keep her breathing slow and even, not wanting to betray her nerves to the women who stood nearby, watching her every move. She had half a mind to tell them, or at least ask them, to leave, but it wasn't as if she was going to have any privacy on a ship. Better to get used to having all eyes on her now. 

When she was sure of what she needed to do, and how she needed to do it (or as sure as she would ever be), she sliced open the girl's shirt to expose her ribs, and positioned the knife. She was about to make the first incision when a sun-browned hand wrapped around her wrist, squeezing so hard her bones grated. 

"What the hell are you doing?" Anya demanded. 

"The shock wave of the explosion has caused damage to her lungs," Clarke said, as calmly as she could. "You can't see it, but one of them has completely collapsed. There's no air going in or out. If I don't do this, she dies." _If I do do this, she might die anyway,_ Clarke thought, but she didn't say it. If she so much as hinted that this might not work, Anya would crush her bones to powder. 

"You're just going to cut into her? You're not even going to give her something to ease the pain?" She let go of Clarke's wrist, and Clarke might have taken a moment to check it for damage, but she had to block Anya from grabbing the flask she'd used to clean the knife. 

"You can't give her that," Clarke said. 

"Like hell I can't," Anya snarled, snatching it up. 

Now Clarke was the one gripping Anya's wrist, and she was no match for her strength, but she had every bit as much determination. "If you do, she might drown," Clarke said. 

"You can't drown on dry land!" Anya countered. 

"I assure you, you can," Clarke said. "If you pour that down her throat, as like as not she'll inhale it rather than swallowing, and then it'll be in her lungs to wreak all manner of havoc. The knife is sharp, and I'll go as quickly as I can. With any luck, by the time she feels it it'll be done." 

"I won't let—"

"Anya," Lexa said, stepping in. "How many times have you been cut in a fight and not realized it until minutes later when the pain finally hits?"

"More times than I can count," Anya admitted grudgingly. 

"Then let her do her work and trust it's what's best for Tris." 

"I don't know her. How can you expect me to trust her?" Anya demanded. 

"I don't," Lexa said. "I expect you to trust _me_." Clarke looked up as the two women stared at each other across the prone body of a little girl who was fighting for her life, and losing that battle inch by inch, moment by moment, while they waged one of their own. The tension in the silence was palpable...

And then they all seem to realize at once that it was silent. The girl's ragged, choking wheezes had stopped. 

"No," Anya said. " _No._ " 

Clarke pressed her fingers against the girl's throat, just beneath her jaw. "Her heart's still beating," she said. "She's not gone yet, but she will be if—"

"Do it," Anya said. 

"Hold her," Clarke said. "Firmly, but don't put too much pressure on her chest."

Anya nodded, gathering the girl's arms and steadying her in case she started to struggle or squirm when she felt the blade pierce her skin. But she was still – too still – and Clarke feared it was already too late. 

Clarke checked her book one last time, wiped the spot on Tris' side where she would be making her cut with an alcohol-soaked rag, and slid the blade between two of her ribs. She shuddered a little as she pierced flesh and muscle and went deeper still, until she was sure the blade was past Tris' ribs and into her chest cavity. She eased the knife out and replaced it with the little tap, and held her breath as she stepped back.

Nothing happened. For an agonizing second, then another, nothing happened. The only sound in the room was the Anya's soft muttering as she begged Tris or the gods or someone to keep the girl among the living. 

Clarke's heart pounded, and she wished she'd kept hold of the knife, because it was within easy reach for Anya now, and if—

Tris' chest rose, and she dragged in a breath, and it still rasped in her chest and throat, but the next one sounded just a little easier, and the one after that easier still. Clarke rushed back to her side, pressing her ear to her chest again – one side, then the other – and gave a quick, satisfied nod. "She's moving air on both sides again," she said, "but she's not out of the woods yet. There's still risk of infection, or damage we can't see to other parts of her, but she's breathing again, and that's something." She smoothed back Tris' hair where it stuck to her sweaty forehead. "That's something." 

"Is this better?" someone asked, holding out a length of reed. Clarke looked into the hopeful eyes of one of the women who had been watching with a mix of horror and fascination, then down at what she offered. 

"Yes," she said. She quickly cut it to length, cleaned it as best she could, and replaced the tap before Tris fully came back to herself, wanting to spare her as much discomfort as she could. Once it was in place, she bandaged it up. 

"You're leaving it like that?" Anya asked. 

"Only for now," Clarke said. "Just to give her body a chance to recover a little." 

Tris finally moved, moaning softly as she opened her eyes and found herself surrounded by faces etched with concern. She finally landed on Anya, whose eyes filled with tears, though she made a valiant effort to blink them away. "What—"

"Shh," Anya said, touching her cheek with a tenderness Clarke wouldn't have imagined her capable of. "You're all right now. You're going to be all right." 

Clarke didn't contradict her, just picked up one of the rags to clean the blood from her hands and took a step back to give them a little space to have their moment. 

She didn't realize she was shivering until she felt something heavy and warm draped around her shoulders. When she looked, she realized it was Lexa's jacket. She glanced over at the captain – the fearsome Commander – and received a small smile and a nod. She'd done it. If Lexa's word was good, she'd done it. She'd saved Tris, and in doing so, saved herself.

* * *

She'd been dead. Lexa had been absolutely sure Tris had been dead, and she'd already been moving to get between Clarke and Anya to keep her second-in-command from exacting the vengeance she'd sworn if Clarke wasn't able to save her protegee. 

Then Tris had drawn a breath, and Lexa let out the one she'd been holding, forcing herself to stay upright even as her body yearned to collapse into the nearest chair with relief. She accepted the mug of something hot and calming Luna was passing out to everyone present, and she told herself it was just the burn of the alcohol making her eyes water. 

She watched as Clarke finished what she was doing and stepped back, her eyes never leaving her patient. When she started to shake, a fine, all-over tremble, Lexa hadn't known whether it was because she was cold or a reaction to her first real challenge as a doctor, but she'd shrugged off her coat and put it around her shoulders anyway. 

Clarke looked over, and Lexa nodded. She had done well and proven herself to be steady under pressure. Anyone who could face down Anya without being cowed had the grit it would take to make it on a ship like The Flame. 

Lexa offered her the mug, and Clarke took it, wrapping her hands around it and letting the warmth seep through even though the night was balmy. Lexa's own shirt was stuck to her back with sweat, but that might have been fear as much as heat. Not that she would ever admit it. "It helps to drink it," Lexa prompted, her tone light.

Clarke took a sip and grimaced, handing it back. "Thank you," she said. "But I need to keep a clear head. The immediate danger has passed, but as I said, she's not out of the woods yet." 

Lexa nodded. "Is it safe to move her?" she asked. "I'd like to give Luna back her bar."

"I'm not opening again tonight," Luna said. "You and your crew are welcome to stay as long as you like, but everyone else can find somewhere else to drink and carouse."

Lexa frowned. "You'll lose—"

"Some things are more important than coin," Luna said. "It's one night, and I don't have it in me to put up with the antics of loud and drunken men after this. I'd end up saying or doing something I wouldn't regret, but whoever was on the receiving end would, and yet somehow I would end up being the one to pay for it." 

"If you're sure," Lexa said. She considered it her job to look out for Luna, just as Luna looked out for her, and she didn't want to be the cause of any more trouble than she already had been. 

"I'm sure," Luna said. She tangled her fingers with Lexa's, pressing palm to palm and squeezing, then let go when Clarke glanced their way. Lexa almost tightened her grip before she could pull away completely, because—

She didn't know because why, though, so she let Luna's fingers slip from hers. 

"If we're careful and we don't move her far, it should be all right," Clarke said. 

Luna frowned. "I gave you the last room I had available," she said. "But—"

"She can have my room, then," Clarke said. 

"Where will you sleep?" Luna asked, and Lexa could see her lips twitching as her eyes flicked to Lexa, then away again. 

"Likely I won't," Clarke said with a shrug. "I'll need to check—"

"You can take my room," Lexa offered. "That way you'll be close should anything happen with her."

Clarke started to nod, then frowned. "Where will _you_ sleep?" she asked.

 _Likely I won't,_ Lexa thought, but she looked at Luna, who had been the one to set most of this in motion. Which was turning out to be a good thing, but Lexa wasn't going to tell _her_ that. Luna already knew it, and was sure to remind her of it any and every time it was convenient for her to do so. 

Luna heaved a sigh. "You'll keep to your side," she said, pointing a finger at Lexa's nose. Lexa just smiled at her, doing her best to look like Lucifer before the fall, and Luna snorted, not believing it for a second. 

"Mind the wound," Clarke said, as Anya prepared to gather Tris up and carry her to Clarke's bed. "We don't need the tube shifting and undoing what I've done, or setting her to bleeding." She hovered at Anya's side until she had the girl safely in her arms and followed a step behind as she ascended the stairs. Lexa followed, telling herself it was only because a member of her crew was injured, and also she needed to clear her room so Clarke could take it over, and not because she felt as if she and Clarke were now somehow linked. 

They soon had Tris settled into Clarke's bed, and Clarke was satisfied that the dressing on her wound was still secure, and her heart and lungs were still doing their jobs as best they could in the aftermath of their trauma. Anya drew up a chair to her bedside, and Lexa knew she wouldn't budge from it unless she had no choice. 

Lexa watched for a moment, then went next door to her room to gather up her things. The bed was still untouched and she hadn't gotten around to unpacking her seabag, so she hefted it to her shoulder and prepared to descend, because Luna's room was on the ground floor. 

The soft scuff of bare feet followed her down, and she was surprised – but then again not – when she turned and found Clarke standing behind her, her arms crossed over her chest as she held Lexa's coat around her. 

They worked together to clean up the mess. Clarke wiped down Lexa's knife before handing it back to her, and Lexa closed Clarke's book, her fingers tracing over the embossed spine before returning it. Clarke glanced toward the stairs, like she was considering going back up to check on Tris, but Lexa knew it wasn't necessary. "Anya will tell us if anything's wrong," she said. "Have no fear she won't."

"Sister?" Clarke asked. "Or daughter?"

"Neither," Lexa said. "And both." 

Clarke nodded, and maybe she understood and maybe she didn't, but she would in time, if she still wanted on Lexa's ship. It occurred to Lexa then that she might not, that being faced with the reality of what it meant to practice medicine – which Clarke wasn't formally trained in – in the heat of the moment, in the midst of battle, wasn't what she wanted to do after all.

Lexa wouldn't blame her. There had been plenty of times early on when she'd questioned her decision to take to the seas, but in the end she'd always come back to the same thing: the deck of a ship – specifically a pirate ship – was the only place she would ever be truly free. The only place where her thoughts and opinions would carry the same or greater weight than a man's. The only place she could be in command and no one would question it... and if they did, she could make them pay. 

Did Clarke have that same need, that same burning desire? Lexa thought she knew the answer, but the question still needed asking. 

"Is this still what you want?"

* * *

"Is this still what you want?" 

The captain's eyes bore into her, but Clarke didn't let herself squirm. _Was_ this still what she wanted? Did she want to spend the rest of her life – which might be short, given the sorts of adventures The Flame and its crew frequently embroiled themselves in – patching up the wounds of women and girls, only to send them straight back into danger as soon as they were fit? And what of the ones she wasn't able to save? Would her first failure lead to a knife at her throat or a long walk off a short pier? 

Then again, what other option was there? Luna might let her stay on here, if she could make herself useful. Surely they had need of a doctor in port... but what man would allow himself to be doctored by a woman? Would she be consigned to tending the wounds inflicted on women by the men who thought them nothing more than property to be used as they saw fit and discarded when they were no longer useful? Would she spend her days and nights birthing babies that might or might not be wanted, or trying to prevent those that weren't wanted from coming into the world at all? Not that that wasn't a noble path, but it wasn't the one she wanted for herself. 

There was also the fact that staying in port – any port, no matter how distant and undesirable – held its own dangers. Her stepfather, upon discovering her gone, might have washed his hands clean of the matter, glad to be well rid of her. Then again, he might be incensed enough by her disobedience to send someone after her, to bring her back by any means necessary just to prove that he was in control of his family. And her mother... there was no way for her to know which way the wind would blow her mother's sails. When Clarke's father was alive, she'd been a force to be reckoned with, because he'd encouraged her to be. When he died, everything had started to fall apart, leaving her mother to try to pick up the pieces by taking up with the first man who was willing to take on a widow and her headstrong teenage daughter. 

Clarke hoped her mother would let her go, trusting she would find her own way – a better way – in the world, but she couldn't be sure. 

Better to take her chances and get as far away from anything and anyone that might recognize or pursue her. A short life of freedom was better than a long one of servitude.

"Yes," she said. "This is what I want."

Lexa nodded. "I'll take you to the ship tomorrow."

Clarke's stomach lurched. She was ready to commit, but... so soon? And what about— "Tris won't be ready to—"

"We won't leave for a few days," Lexa said. 

"She won't be ready in a few days, either," Clarke said. "Her recovery—"

Lexa's eyes narrowed, like she was already regretting her decision to allow Clarke onto her ship. But she followed Clarke's gaze upward, to the room where all was quiet... for now. "We won't leave until we're sure of her, one way or the other," she said. "If she's ready to come with us, she'll come. If not, Luna will look after her."

"You would leave her behind?" Clarke asked. She would have thought Lexa would have more loyalty to her crew. 

"Until she's fit to rejoin us," Lexa said. "Until we're able to make it back. It does neither us nor her any good to bring her along and risk her picking up an illness or injury before she's fully recovered. Better she misses us for a few weeks than that we miss her forever." 

Clarke couldn't argue with that. "Then why tomorrow?" she asked.

Lexa raised an eyebrow. "You'll want to see the space you'll be working with, I would imagine," she said, "and what supplies we have available for you. You can make a list of the things you think you'll need that we don't already have, and I'll make sure we get them before we ship out again." She looked Clarke up and down. "You'll want to find something a bit... sturdier to wear before we go, too." 

Clarke looked down at her dress, now stained with blood along with everything else, and suppressed a sigh. "I suppose I will," she said, drawing Lexa's coat tighter around herself to cover the parts of her that were exposed... then realized what she was doing and shrugged it off, handing it back. "Thank you," she said. "I should check on my patient." 

"And get some rest," Lexa said. "I'll see you in the morning." She didn't smile, but there was a brightness to her eyes that made Clarke think she was amused somehow. 

Clarke chose to ignore it. "You too," she said, and tried not to think about the fact that when Lexa did, it would be in the same bed as Luna, who had warned her to stay on her side, but Clarke got the feeling it was just a game the two of them played. Not that it mattered to her what they did behind closed doors. It was none of her concern. 

She trudged up the stairs and poked her head into the room that had so recently been hers, where her things still were and would remain until morning because she didn't want to wake Tris... or Anya, who had abandoned her chair in favor of curling protectively around the girl who it was clear she loved as sister and daughter both, though she was none of her blood, according to Lexa. 

Clarke leaned over them to press the backs of her fingers to Tris' forehead, which was warm but not alarmingly so. Anya cracked open an eye, grunted, and closed it again when she saw it was only Clarke. Clarke retreated, leaving the door, and the one to her room, open a crack to hear better if anyone called for her in the night.

* * *

Lexa shouldn't have been as amused as she was watching Clarke struggle to climb the ladder up to the ship's deck in her skirts. She'd considered – briefly – offering her a pair of her own breeches to wear, but Clarke had been short on sleep and patience, and Lexa had decided against it in favor of letting Clarke learn the lesson the hard way. 

There really wasn't any other way to learn things at sea anyway. 

It took time, but Clarke did finally manage to climb over the rail, landing gracelessly – but on her feet – on the deck. Lexa followed, well used to such climbs, in less than a minute, and fought back a smile at Clarke's scowl. 

Before they could make it more than a few steps, they were stopped by someone dropping from the lines above, landing with a thump in front of them. "Captain!" 

This time Lexa didn't bother fighting her smile. "Aden."

"They say Tris was hurt in the explosion last night. But she's all right, isn't she?" His forehead furrowed and he shifted his weight from foot to foot, more than was necessary to counteract the rocking of the ship. 

Lexa reached out and ruffled his hair, pushing the sun-bleached strands out of his eyes. "She made it through the night," she said, not wanting to give him false hope or make promises she couldn't keep. "This is our new ship's doctor, Clarke," she added. "She's going to do everything she can to take care of Tris and make sure she comes back to us whole and hale. Clarke, this is Aden." 

"A pleasure to meet you," Clarke said, dropping a quick curtsy, and Lexa swallowed a snort. 

Aden's cheeks went red, but he managed a passable bow in return. "Pleasure to meet you too, ma'am," he said, putting on his best manners, and Lexa had no idea where he'd learned them because it certainly wasn't on her ship. "Tris is my best friend, ma'am," he added.

"Then I'll treat her like she's my best friend," Clarke said, and Lexa's chest got suddenly tight. "And you don't have to call me ma'am. Clarke is fine." 

"Yes ma'am," Aden said. "I'd best be getting back to work now." He stopped for a moment, then threw his arms around Lexa's waist and squeezed, and she rubbed his back for a second before letting him go. It was a liberty she wouldn't usually allow, but Aden was special, and always had been.

Clarke looked at her with raised brows after Aden ran off, climbing back into the rigging quick as a monkey, and Lexa shrugged. "Few years ago we took a ship," she said. "I didn't like the way the captain looked at him. So I took his eyes. Then I took his eggs. Then I took Aden."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out this amazing art](https://ironicsnowflake.tumblr.com/post/632998429290872832) that [qvert](https://qvert.tumblr.com/) created for me! [And this one](https://ironicsnowflake.tumblr.com/post/636447060869201920/check-out-the-amazing-art-that-qvert-created-of)!


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